Southern Steel: The Sicilian Liar
by MaveSenogara
Summary: Romano had been told of his value, and he chose to throw the words back in the face of the only man who had ever given him the slightest iota of recognition. Decades later, when the dust of 1945 has long settled, how does he feel? Is the regret all-consuming? Or is it tempered with hope of someday making reparations?


Southern Steel: The Sicilian Liar

I dream of it nearly every night, see it as I do now. Even after so many decades, the sights do not lose any of their vibrancy, so the authentic feel to them still leaves me gasping for much needed air , cold sweat trickling down my tan, overheated skin in stinging rivulets. It has become a tiring routine – some type of Standard Operating Protocol (or is the right word "process"? "Procedure", maybe? How should I know what shit _he_ used to call it? All I know is it starts with a capital fucking "P".) – for me to struggle to get up, rolling back and forth like an upended turtle and flopping back and forth like a fish out of water. I grab the headboard and haul myself up until I'm in a sitting position; it's a trick I learned after a few months of this craziness and hey, that in itself shows that I'm not brainless after all (To make it fucking clear: I'm not saying I was ever brainless) . Propped up on my slender forearms, I glare down at my younger idiot of a brother (he slept in our bed this time, what a surprise) to check if the asshole is awake; which, of course, he isn't. My retarded i_fratello/i_ sleeps like a log and snores like a chainsaw (What?! I'm not good with the goddamned analogies, okay?)

Sighing, I swing my legs gracelessly over the side of the bed and trod woodenly to the tiled bathroom, making sure to lock the door behind me. This is to keep Veneziano away from me, since I absolutely do not want that bastard seeing me... in my state. I fill the porcelain sink with water and I take a few minutes to rinse the perspiration from my face. I look into the mirror and see a horrifying sight before me: its hair is dry like chocolate-colored straw, frizzing out this way and that in a mess that just takes the whole "dirty" Sicilian hairstyling too far. Its olive-skinned face is pale, the shadows under its eyes standing out like big, pastel-like bruises. Its eyes are flat pools of amber, the golden hue so diluted that it has taken the color of burnt gold, as if it is rusting away. If I was as stupid as Veneziano, I would have jumped back in fright and I would have started yelling for either Spain or that potato bastard… not that I'd expect that uptight blonde to come, of course.

At this thought, I sink down to my knees on the cold, tiled floor. I have to grip the counter with both hands to keep from spiraling down into another fit of depression. I am not gonna cry like some whiny bitch, I swear to God I am not gonna cry like Feliciano because I'm older and I'm stronger and… who the fuck am I kidding? Veneziano's always been the better of us, – Grandpa Rome proved that the moment he took Veneziano away and left me – and that fact's not going to change any time soon. So yeah, I let a tear or two slip (Just one, or two… or three… seriously, who the fuck counts their tears?!) as I keep asking the same unanswered questions over and over again.

i_Why the fuck did you leave, Germany? Why the fuck did you attack me, bomb me, kill my people and then let yourself surrender?/i_

I know the answer of course. It is because I defected. My cowardice and my boss at that time had prompted me to desert, to carry on several underground negotiations with those retards that called themselves the Allied Forces. I had helped them so much, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't do it eagerly. I was impatient, I was weary and I was sick of watching the entire world around me burn to the ground. I knew the war would last for more years if I didn't do something. So that's what I did. I tossed the goddamned coin and I fucking switched sides. I put that dictator in jail and I signed the damned armistice. A few years in, Naples revolted (I can't say that I wasn't fucking proud of them when they did that). Germany retaliated and I thought I would die when I heard his troops advancing into my territory.

I distinctly remember that time (How could I not remember it? It was one of the things I constantly dreamt of) when he went with his army and attacked one of my cities. He had his hand on a gun and his eyes burned like sapphires that had been set aflame with hellfire. It radiated nothing but pure, unadulterated hatred at my betrayal – hatred for me. Those twin cerulean depths reflected sheer bloodlust – an insatiable desire to slaughter and raze everything that even possessed a speck of _Southern Italian; _they were like windows – shattered, bloodied windows – that revealed gruesome intent to hurt me in any way possible. That look alone could have killed me then and there.All traces of the country I secretly respected were gone. He wasn't himself and I wanted to tear the swastika out of him, for it took away the one I really… respected. Yeah, that's a good word for it. I hid from Germany and I never showed my face until he left – I did not want him to see my tears and my guilt.

That one guy (I think his name started with a "Church" – something.) called the southern part (Veneziano and I) the "soft underbelly" of the Axis. History disproves it, but to me, this couldn't be more true. I caused the Axis to break apart. Japan got pissy at me too, after that. I hastened our fucking defeat – or, more accurately, made it inevitable since we really did stand a big fucking chance – and I did it happily.

But part of me lied.

I didn't want to abandon my comrades. I didn't want to abandon Japan, or imi fratello/i and I especially did not want to abandon Germany. But it all came crashing down because of the law of the cosmos which states that great things never lasted forever – my grandfather and Germany's father is living (or dead) proof of that. I had doubted Germany's promises, his visions of the future, because I simply could not bring my mind to fathom how it could all be possible. I thought he was crazy and maybe he was, but whatever. That future was just too far, too impossible for my short-sightedness and I broke.

See how fucking brilliant I am?

It is so empty in here. I wanted to scream just to test how many times it can echo in the white room. But my insides are just as empty as my monochromatic surroundings. I find no remnant of my normally loud voice, instead, I find my tears coming uncontrollably as my chest aches again. My dark, messy hair plasters itself to my forehead and I smooth it back in frustration, leaning back against the only surface I can feel. How long has it been, anyway? It feels like hours and yet, I know it couldn't possibly be that long.

"Stupid bastard." I grumble. "Damned potato-eating _stronzo_. Who does the son-of-a-bitch think he is, making me cry like this. Why the fuck am I even doing this? I'm not some damned wimp! _Dio_, what am I doing with myself?"

Some instinct keeps me glancing towards the door, waiting for the non-existent turning of a knob and the deep baritone voice I know will never come. I want to be comforted, but that jerk would never come running for _me_. Really, Veneziano's all he cares about, right?

The memories keep coming, though. And I find one that actually contradicts that former notion. It was a night at camp, one of those rare, starlit evenings where we were all miraculously together; there were four of i_us/i_ instead of the usual three of i_them/i_. The small bonfire we had somehow managed to build flickered merrily in the dimness; it was a comforting sound that almost, almost made me feel like I was home. Like I was safe.

Germany's watch coincided with mine and it was up for heated debate whether that was a good thing or not. We were both silent (yes, I can keep my mouth shut too. Add that to my short list of fucking achievements) as we watched our two other companions sleep fitfully on the frigid ground. We all clutched some kind of cloak or blanket around our bodies to protect us from the bitingly glacial wind. My eyes casted around, searching respite on something and anything as long as it wasn't on the potato jerk. I wasn't very patient. I was freezing, I was fatigued, I was starving and I was annoyed (that wasn't much of a surprise; I was frequently annoyed. In my defense, a lot of things in this fucked up world is damn annoying). When those four feelings decide to get together and have a party, it left me in the mood to insult someone or shoot something (hey, I was still hung up on the Mafia); so I did the only thing I could do in these situations: I insulted him.

What? It's called multitasking. I could vent, I could start a conversation and provoke that asshole into talking and I could use my name-calling as another layer of cover to hide the fact that I was fucking uncomfortable (was that the right word? All I knew was that I was jumpy and excited and my stomach kept flipping like some shitty acrobat) with just the two of us being left semi-alone.

"Oi, oi, i_stronzo/i_! This is all your fucking fault, you know. You dragged us into this goddamned war of yours and now I'm freezing my ass off and not getting the proper amount of sleep. The least you could do is give me your fucking blanket so I don't die! Chigi… if only I had a tomato I'd throw it at you." I had muttered darkly at him, shooting daggers at him with my eyes.

He had turned to me, his flaxen eyebrows tugging up in response as he mumbles back. "I can't give you my blanket, Romano. I'd be the one to freeze then."

He was always so calm and composed even when I swore at him for hours on end. It pissed me off a lot, but I couldn't really complain because most others usually hugged me (Spain) or hit me (everyone else) when I threw profanities at them. The neutrality that emanated from him was reassuring, in a way.

"Then freeze, bitch. I don't really give a fuck what you do just get me out of this co- hey, hey, what the fuck?! Get away from me!" I ranted, but I had been cut off when he suddenly scooted closer to me and draped half of his blanket over my quivering frame. I pushed against his muscular chest (at least, that's what I felt from under his military jacket… wait, no. What the hell am I thinking?!) but to no avail. He just looked at me until I stopped struggling and crossed my arms over my chest. I moved a few inches away (not enough to drop the blanket. Damn, it was warm in there, especially with him adding his body heat to the mix) and just shut my mouth. The few inches between us was like a thick wall – at least, that's how it seemed like to me.

"This war will pay off, you know." He said out of the blue. I looked at him questioningly and he elaborated softly. "One day, we'll all be on top of a perfectly built world. Me and you and Italy and Japan."

"Humph. That's what we all say in a war, idiot. And don't call him Italy. I'm Italy too, you know. I just represent the less famous end." I snapped at him.

"Sorry. I should have recognized sooner that you were touchy on these matters."

"I am not touchy, you jerk. I'm just clearing things up for you." I replied. "I don't think Veneziano appreciates you calling him by a name that we both share. The idiot's bound to get confused one day."

"Alright, then." He simply shrugged and looked at the fire. Seriously, what kind of response is that? Who gives one-liners as a reply?

"Why?"

He made a questioning sound in his throat and I finished my question. "What do you need us for? What could we possibly offer that made you and your boss that ally yourselves with us?"

"I don't know it myself. We have our reasons, Romano. At the very least, I need someone to back me up and tell me that I'm sane." He told me, honesty ringing in every word.

"Then it's Veneziano you want. I think you're crazy." I stated matter-of-factly. If he wanted comforting words and all that crap, my brother would be more than inclined to give Germany just that; I however, wouldn't do it even if he threatened to shove hot pokers down my gullet… well, okay, if it came to that, I guess I could spare a few precious words…

"So I guess you don't fucking need me after all, huh potato head?" I asked, looking pointedly away from him. I was a glutton for punishment, but I just needed to hear it straight. He didn't need me and we both knew it.

The unending pause grated on my ears and, just as I was about to scream at him to spit it out, he spoke, so quietly that I had to strain to hear him over the wind. My eyes snapped to him and I engaged in a staring contest that I was bound to lose.

"Nein. I need you both. You're as important to us – to me – as Veneziano. I would even go so far to say that we need you more than him. Rome, after all, is in your territory. You're more useful in a lot of ways… but I'm not saying that I keep you with us just for your uses. You're a strong nation. You're tenacious, persistent and diligent, in your own way. Your brother's like clay; he can be molded into a lot of things, but he'll always be soft. You, however, are like steel. You don't easily bend and you can cut through almost anything. I like that about you. In all honesty, you are a bit fascinating, and your loud mouth also enflames our courage in ways your brother never could." He said it so straight that for a moment, I thought it was rehearsed. But at the second, his eyes morphed full force into his heavy blue gaze and I swear that just for a moment, those hard, stone-like orbs softened with… affection?

I swallowed the dryness in my throat and fixed my gaze determinedly on the fire, snapping twigs in my hand and feeding them to the ravenous light. I doubt I could ever love him more than in those few moments. Those words meant the world to me, because finally, someone told me that I actually had more value than my brother. It was probably the first time that someone had told me that I had value, period. I wanted to cry and laugh and smile and I think I wanted to kiss him. Instead, I just kept staring and breathing deeply, breathing in the robust scent of him, sitting so close to me, probably unaware of the enormity of his verbal gift. I hoped the firelight was enough to deceive him, to blind him to the bright blush I felt painting my cheeks.

"i_Grazie, stronzo/i_." I whispered, not sure if he heard me or not.

That was probably one of the other reasons why he had hated me so much when I defected. He had told me my exact worth and I threw it right back in his face. He told me I was steel; I proved him wrong by bending and breaking. I admit that I can be pretty fucking stupid, but that was probably the worst mistakes I've ever made.

The aftermath was probably much more painful to endure than the war itself. I didn't talk to him in any of the conferences – hell, I could hardly even look at him in those meetings. We passed by each other like we were strangers and it crushed me. Through it all, I pretended I didn't fucking care, like I didn't give a damn about him and what he was going through, even as I watched him become more and more haggard – especially after his brother was taken away. I pretended that he didn't exist, but the nightmares started to plague me until every misstep I've made with him came back to bite me in the ass.

And here I am now, still pretty fucking pathetic, grieving over shit that should have long been gotten over. But I'm not the type to fucking move on easily, as evidenced by how I'm still torn up over my Grandfather's disappearance, my brother's continuous, effortless successes at outshining me and my still existent obsession with the blonde haired, blue-eyed nation.

Sure, we talked casually, but I doubt he'll ever look at me like he did that one night when he told me I wasn't worthless. I've hung on those words, told myself that he really meant it, that the look in his eyes could have meant something more. But I shut it all away since it hurt too fucking much for me to bear.

I'm the selfish bastard of a nation who lies about everything 'cause I'm too afraid of what being vulnerable will do to me. But most of all, I think I lie because I don't want anyone else to believe in me the way he did since there's a big possibility that I'd let them all down like I let him down. It's only in times like this when I can be honest and it's not as fucking cute as Spain says. It's tragic, pathetic, but I don't care.

This is how I repay Germany for all the things I've done and all the things I've said. I'll continue to wallow in my own misery because no matter how much I try, I can never rebuild what we used to have or what we could have had. Maybe one day, when I feel that I have paid the reparation fees, I can come to him again, and then pick it up from there. It might not be in the next world conference, or the one after that, but definitely there will come a time when I'll be able to say that I… still… love… him… (there, I admitted it to myself) straight out.

Until then… I guess it'll just be me, the broken piece of steel who laments over the lost rock and the fire that could have kept them together.


End file.
